Chapter 2

When the General saw the blue-skulled man, he halted in mid- sentence- the Pasha's eyes began to glisten and grow wider. Taking just the right amount of time to pause, the Blue-one began to narrate the boy's misdeeds-but he could go no further. Appealing to the stern General and to us, the heavens-blue man now cracked up, laughing like we had done earlier. His laughter was so contagious that we could not help but join him. In the middle of our merriment, the boy came riding back with a mass of children following him. The adults readily recognized him, but they were no longer concerned about Thar's outlandish pranks.

The boy brought the donkey back to the same spot where it formerly stood. In the same way he had left us, he returned to us with the same style of majestic dignity and seriousness. This made such an irresistible impression upon all of us, that our laughter momentarily turned to silence. Just as suddenly, it broke loose and doubled its intensity, as if it never wanted to end. Laughing with us too was the Blue-one. Once he began, he laughed the longest and was the last to stop.

Thar also recognized the General. Right away, he positioned himself directly in front of him, smartly stood at attention, then sharply saluted just like he had seen soldiers whenever they met an officer. The Pasha then asked him: "Do you know who I am." "Yes," he answered. "Then who am I?" "You are Benaja, the Commander-in-chief of King Solomon's army!" The General laughed: "Bravo! You're still playing your role. What are your weapons for?" The Pasha pointed to the scissors, corkscrew, and candle-snuffers. However, the boy was not ready to step out of character. His mouth still contained countless numbers of stories.

Better than any German boy's knowledge of his home city's chronicles, Thar knew all the legends and tall tales of Jerusalem's past. He was even consciously aware of his weapons' symbolism. He quickly answered, taking no time to reflect: "These are the 'Scorpions' wherewith the King of Judah pinched and pulled the ears of the people whenever they didn't want to obey him. I'm Gideon, the hero who hails from my ancestors of Manasseh. I borrowed your warhorse because I needed your steed to carry out my vendetta against the Midianites, the sons of Abraham. Your mount is too fat and has no endurance; so for this reason, I turned around and brought him back to you. I appreciate your loaning him to me, but he is really of no use."

Thar repeated his salute. The Pasha laughed so hard that tears streamed from his eyes. Without question, he seemed to be a very congenial gentleman. Mustafa hurriedly capitalized on the Pasha's good mood and seeming willingness to forego punishment of his son: "For what he has done, please forgive him! He's exceptionally bright and greatly gifted." Yet his words accomplished just the opposite of what he had intended. In a flash, the face of the Pasha became serious again, almost threatening: "No speech of yours can gain the boy's pardon. Your son has doubly transgressed- against me and against him over there." The Pasha pointed towards the man from Ain Kahrim: "For this, he deserves punishment instead of a reward; and by my own hand, I will personally administer his whipping. Is there a switch nearby which suits this purpose?"

The African Bem heard this request. From his corner of the room, he brought out a thin, knobby walking-stick which had been used for all kinds of educational procedures. When the boy saw this, he began to talk- instead of prudently staying silent. The General grabbed the cane and air-lashed it several times as he tested it to and fro. Satisfied with the reed, the Pasha nodded his head and slyly squinted his eyes as he looked sideways at the boy: "Of course, you understand that your offenses will be punished?" Thar nodded and quickly answered: "Yes." "Should I then pronounce judgment by using your given name?" "Yes." "And also carry out the punishment in your name?" "Yes." "So be it. By my own hand, the boy shall receive ten blows: five for injuries to me and five for you!" The General pointed to the blue-headed man from Ain Kahrim. Disappointedly, the man asked: "Isn't that too few?" The Pasha snapped at him: "Be silent!"

"Who receives this corporal punishment-you or me?" the boy asked. "You!" In deference to the Pasha, Thar turned and said: "Surely you see that this is neither too little nor too much. Are you serious in your judgment of only ten lashes?" The General confirmed his decision: "Yes. For Gideon, this is actually not a great honor to be beaten with a cane!"

The boy agreed: "I think so too! However, I now have this misfortune-not merely to retaliate once, but to collect vengeance again! So I plead with you; at least grant me permission to put aside my hero's garb." His wish was granted, so he made his exit to the coffee-corner. He took off his warrior-weaponry, then returned in order to get on with the improvised administration of justice.

"Hold him!" the Pasha commanded the father. Mustafa obeyed. In the manner that all readers know full well, the father leaned forward, stuck out his left knee, and placed the Guardian-of-Blood- Feuds across his lap, thereby causing the back side of the Transgressor to be exposed. Without saying a word and without struggling, Thar allowed all this to happen. The Pasha positioned himself, took a swing with the cane, and counted the strokes: "One- two."

He continued no further. The execution could not go forward, because my wife had sprung from her chair, placed herself squarely between the competitors, and appealed for mercy. The Pasha asked who she was. She told him. For a moment, he reflected, then bowed to her and replied that he would grant her request-but not before the count of ten which he had dictated. Under all circumstances, he was obligated to uphold his word; therefore, he was unable to rescind his order. Admittedly, he could not mitigate the two strokes that he had already given. In regard to the outstanding eight which she now wished to administer, and rightly so, the Pasha would grant her heart's desire.

At this point, he handed her the cane, stepped back, and beckoned her to proceed. Since we were all in sympathy with the Delinquent, we were pleased that she accepted his offer. When she turned towards the Pasha, she no longer saw him. In the meantime, he had gone back to the shop next door. Just when the man from Ain Kahrim prepared to lodge his objection to a lighter sentence, Mustafa Bustani invited him to come back in one hour and pick out a present for himself. With just a few more words here and there, the gentleman left, for the time being.

Meanwhile, the boy whispered so that his father would not hear him: "He laughed- oh how he laughed! Did you see it? Oh how that makes me happy!" His good-hearted, loving-eyes lit up. Then he kissed my wife's hand and said: "I thank you for the 'eight' which you have given me. They were tender and mild as pepperless home-baked cookies. For this, I'll never forget you. As you know, I'm a hero. Whenever you're in need, please call on me to rescue you."

On this note, Thar once again withdrew to the coffee-corner. With the help of African Bem, he somehow managed to change into a new outfit. His father once more took his place upon the crate in order to pick up the conversation where we had left off. Laughingly, he closed the matter with words about his darling Trickster's capers: "He was his mother's 'chosen one.' She saw everything in him! Whether the Pasha wants to believe it or not, he really is greatly gifted." I wanted to know how the boy had acquired his strange love for colors: "Was it also present in his childhood?"

Mustafa answered: "No. Understand that my Coffee Helper Bem and my dark-skinned cook are a married couple. For some time, their own young son has apprenticed himself to a whitewashing craftsman. With their help, my son has developed a lively interest in the multi- faceted kingdom of colors. It seems to me that he was born to be an artist. At first, we of course saw only the beginnings; but they soon became so evident that I began to think that my lovely revenue- earning store must have been seized by alien hands. According to Islam, the human body should not be illustrated nor copied. Yet for Thar and his sense of artistry, he sees how life holds such majesty and beauty- it seems to invite him to become a famous and honored painter. Among all of my acquaintances, they believe that something of great consequence has been planted within him. Is it not my duty to help him become a great man?"

He didn't speak softly, so the boy heard every word. As a result of this, Thar came out of his corner and said to me: "Effendi, you need to hear the whole story; my father is not fully informing you. Namely, it's this way: my Father says that I was 'most favored' by my Mother. In every way, she wanted to take care of me. She knew that I had talent, so she was confident that one day I would become a great artist. On the other hand, here is what Mother always said: 'I'm Father's favorite. In all things, he looks after me. Still, he has the talents of valiant heroes, and he shall become a great man.' When I attend school and listen to my teacher, he constantly says that I'm the 'chosen one' of my Father, of My mother, and of all my relatives; they follow everything I do. According to my teacher, I don't have the slightest amount of talent ever to become a great man-my prospects are surely limited to that of working in commerce, playing chess, and hatching hoaxes. So now you know, Effendi."

He said this so seriously. Truly, this was an earnest matter. Not only that, it was infinitely important. His father had no idea about the depth of meaning which lay in this child's honest words. However, my wife perceived the truth in what he said, because she looked at me and knowingly nodded.

In the meantime, the boy had changed his external appearance-not only in the way of colors, but even in relation to their arrangement. That which earlier had been green, now was blue, and what was once blue became green. The right leg, the left arm, and both cheeks were now green. His left leg, right arm, upper lip, and twisted-moustache were blue. Seeing this, I asked myself: "What's next?"

He answered promptly: "I'm Judas Maccabees, and I have a vendetta against the Syrians. I'll let that go for the time being, because I've heard what my Father said about me. I've told you what he thinks about me, how my Mother once thought of me, and the teacher's assessment of me. Now, I would also like to know your point of view, Effendi. First of all, please tell me your opinion about all this. Who's right? Father, Mother, or the teacher?"

As if to ask forgiveness, he blushed and cast a pleading glance toward his father when he answered his own question: "I love my Father and my Mother, but they're both mistaken. I have no affection for my teacher, but he's right." I was unable to respond-I could only pull the boy to my side and kiss him on his unpainted forehead. My heart wanted to overflow, and I also saw how deeply my wife was moved-her eyes filled with tears. It was nothing short of a sacred moment. All the while, his father sat next to me. Mustafa smiled at us, and yet he didn't have the slightest notion about the depth of innocence, the pure candor, and the spell-binding magic of the child's soul which had become so palpably open to us. "So, give me a little time, Thar. When we see each other again, you'll be different than you were previously. On that date, I'll form my opinion of you. Before I leave Jerusalem, I'll tell you what I think."

"Really?" he begged. "Yes, really," I answered. At that moment, his hand gently and tenderly touched my cheekbone as he solemnly declared: "Make no mistake; I also love you. This I know for sure. Do you want to see something that I've created, that I've actually painted?" I said "Yes."

"When are you coming again?" I responded, "Tomorrow at the same time." He quickly chimed in: "Well then, before noon. I must begin my work and finish the pictures this afternoon!" He thought for a couple of moments. A mischievous snicker quivered across his green cheeks and over his blue moustache. Then he asked his father: "May I have your permission to redecorate the garden house today?"

"What do you want to do there?" inquired Mustafa. Thar answered: "Paint two pictures; tomorrow, I'll show them to Effendi." "Good, you may." Thar insisted: "But no one may disturb me. Unless I so desire, no one will be allowed to come into the garden house." "Not even I?" asked Mustafa. "That includes you," said Thar.

That's certainly interesting. I hope that you will be successful in showing Effendi something that's really good; so, I have nothing against your project. "The boy exclaimed: "Thanks be to Allah! I'll begin right away!" In joyful anticipation, he turned a somersault and shot out of the shop. After a few minutes of silence, Mustafa Bustani asked: "Now, what do you say to him? What a good lad! An artist, right?"

"Wait," I answered. "First, let's see. Such judgments should be weighed and regarded closely. I've prayed for an extension of time. Tomorrow will be the next time I see him."

This gave us the occasion to take our leave, so we parted company. It was close to noon, when the hottest time of day begins and one best spends time in the coolness of a room. When the heat was past, we hiked towards the Mount of Olives in order to walk towards Bethany, and then return back to Jerusalem via the sites of Bethphage and Kafr et Tur. We took a photograph; my wife almost never travels without a camera. Due to the fact that carrying photography gear on a tour requires so much time and trouble, I'm always concerned that dealing with such things can greatly interfere with my personal and natural mobility. Yet my wife loves to bring home souvenir-photos that make her happy when she reminisces later on. So today, she also took a couple of pictures in Bethany; I've included one of those, because it shows the remnants of the city's stone wall. We climbed to the summit of the Mount of Olives, upon which there are places where you can see not only the mountains of East Jordan, but even a part of the Dead Sea. As we enjoyed this rich view, we talked about our visit with Mustafa Bustani. Contrasting his earlier, sad appearance, we knew that the years would actually pass quickly as he aged. The death of his wife had very deeply gripped him, which another Muslim might be capable of handling otherwise.

Add to this a second, almost equally deep sorrow and inner-soul- excitement which we were yet to discover. Up to this point, our attention had almost exclusively been directed to the East; we now turned to the West, to the city that lay before us. There in a secluded area near a carob bush, we saw a man sitting with his hands folded as if in prayer-staring motionless at the horizon. This was some time before the shadows of evening. We were compelled to look at him. When we came nearer, he stood up. It was our friend Mustafa Bustani. We mentioned how we had just been talking about him. However, he seemed to be self-conscious about our coincidental meeting. It was as if he were feeling caught in the act of doing something that no one was supposed to know about. His words, which shut down after our greeting, sounded as though he felt that he had a duty to apologize.

He told us how this place has been his favorite spot for some time, one which he visits daily as he looks towards the East. Instinctively, I had to think about his missing, banished brother who had disappeared in the East. We sat closely beside him and soon noticed that he thought it necessary to speak in a peculiar frame of mind which had an exceptionally soft-hearted undertone, one that gave the impression of emotional helplessness. In our enormously scene- gripping, surrounding locale, I didn't pry further. In his psyche, he himself was used to doing a lot of soul-searching.

I was right, for he very soon directed the conversation to his previously mentioned favorite subject, to the connection of the visible and invisible world and to the biblical claim that there are in fact miracles. Regarding this, he confessed to us that a dream drove him to this conclusion, a dream that had been so certain and so clear that it seemed he was awake and not sleeping at all. This clarity had been so great and so convincing, that he had written down its exact date: the 15th day of the Month of Adar. Half-way apologizing and half-way questioning, he added that he would not take on too much by being preoccupied with his dreams. We assured him that all of us were greatly interested in everything that concerned him, especially in matters of his spiritual life.

"Effendi, you know that my brother was cast out because he had become a Christian, and that we all rejected his attempts to reconcile, for he had even married a Christian woman. Ever since, no one has heard from him. Later on, no one could find out where he went. The events that followed even extended to our family's inheritance. He had the very same rights as I had. I became the sole heir; he was poor, poor as a beggar!"

I tried to soften the harshness by noting customary laws and governing families' rights. He pointed this out to me: "You are a Christian and therefore think differently when you try to make me feel better. For a full year, I felt no sense of unfairness about what we had committed against him. After all, possessions and religion are different matters, right? As a believer, am I permitted to change the order of things whenever my wealth changes to poverty? No! Even for such a little thing as wanting to become a Christian and not remain a Muslim, one can be pushed out of the family's circle of inheritance. However, this last thought did not come from me; rather, it came from my wife. In her heart, there lived a love and a kind-heartedness which were not present in me. Her graciousness began a difficult and heavy labor in me-but she succeeded. My hardness became softer, always more tender; and when the mother of my son passed away, she died as the victor. I promised her that I would search for my brother and share with him everything that I own. She thanked me, blessed me-then closed her eyes and departed.

He covered his face with his hands and became silent for a while as he tried to master his emotions; then, he continued: "In vain, I searched and searched. My brother had simply disappeared. Constantly, I thought about him and even more about my wife, whose death had taken even more away from me. Effendi, you probably know this already. This question came to me: 'What if my brother had already died, and he and my wife had found each other on the other side of this life, where they now talked and looked below?' I brooded over such thoughts. I awoke with these ideas, and I fell asleep with them."

"On the 15th day of the month of Adar, I dreamed that I was on my knees, praying in the mosque. Opened before me was the First Kiblah of the Holy Koran. My brother appeared to me and led me forth, wanting to help me realize what he wanted to say to me: 'I'm dead, but I live. You have not pardoned me, but I've forgiven you. I'll send you my forgiveness. She approaches from the East. Daily, keep a look-out for her and restore again what you have perpetrated against me!' His words resounded. Then, he disappeared. The Koran closed itself, and I awoke from the dream. This vision appeared to be so clear and so true to me, that I left my store for the entire day in order to ponder its meaning. Almost daily ever since, I am driven to come here as I look towards the East to see whether the dream is being fulfilled."

"Regularly, I sojourn for a short time in Bethany where I visit the grave of Lazarus. Why? I don't know. For me, it's as if this is the only place where I shall somehow meet with the messenger of my brother. Effendi, what do you say about this dream?" "Listen to what you yourself are saying about your brother. Truly, your own feelings can lead you better than any separate perspective that I could give you." "So, do you think that I should continue to take my daily walks to this place?" I replied: "Through someone or in some way, will they forbid you to visit this site?" He answered, "No." So I assured him, "Well then, there's no real reason for you to stop."

Relieved, Mustafa confided in me: "I thank you. At first, it was hard for me to tell you and your wife about these matters. Now that I've told you, I feel that my heart has grown much lighter. So, come! Twilight is coming, and we must go-otherwise, the darkness will overtake us on our way back.

He stood up, and we followed his example. He was right; the evening sank lower, so we hurried towards home. Along the way, he told us how he had taken care of some business for us. In Hebron, he had located an expensive, Arabian Pasha-saddle which was for sale. He would send a messenger to pick it up, then show the saddle to me. Just then, I remembered: "Oh yes, I personally must go towards Hebron. I want to show my wife the Grave of Abraham, Abraham's Well, and the famous Oak of Mamre, where the three angels appeared to the Patriarch."

He happily called out: "So, if you'll permit me, I'll accompany you. Since I have many important and pressing things to do there, it would be best if we could travel tomorrow." I agreed: "Yes, we can do that. Any time that suits you is OK for us." He seemed pleased: "Really? Then tomorrow is OK? And may I bring along my son Thar? It will be a real treat for him to accompany you and me, riding in a beautiful carriage to see an unknown part of the world. In that direction, he's never traveled farther than Bethlehem." We were happy to oblige: "If it's OK with you, we have no objection to Thar coming with us."

"Good. So it's decided that we'll make the trip; I'll make the arrangements for a carriage. Since you're now on your way to my home, please stay awhile longer at my house. I want you to see the joy which your invitation will bring to my boy." Before we reached our destination, it became completely dark. Mustafa Bustani knocked on the inner gate's locked door.

Shuffling foot steps drew near; the African cook opened the door for us. She had an oriental wind-lantern in her hand. By its light, we saw that her entire body had been wrapped in a white sheet, which now was so full of blue, green, red, and yellow smudges, that we hardly recognized its original surface.

When the master of the house saw her, he cried out: "Maschallah! Look at you!" As she proudly answered, a most satisfied grin almost doubled in size as it spread across her face: "This is art!" Bewildered, Mustafa pressed further: "Art? How so?" Maschallah replied: "We are painting the Red Sea. We began right after lunch, and we're still not quite finished."

"You-you're painting too?" he asked. Certain, yet not exactly cheerful misgivings began to cross his mind. In a tone that seemed to have greater and greater self-satisfaction, she declared: "Yes, I. The 'Favored One' is painting only the water, the air, and the sun; I, however, paint the land green. Thar is not yet finished." Mustafa quizzed further: "The green land? Well then, what does he paint on? Hopefully, only on paper." Maschallah surprised him: "Upon paper? Oh no. That would be much too small. We're painting on the wall."

"Upon the wall? Where then?" She answered: "In the garden house." Mustafa cried out: "Allah, Allah! On the wall in the garden house? That is outrageous! What will I see there? I must go there immediately." He hurried away from the gate where he had been standing all this time. At this moment, the cook saw my wife and me. Her face lit up like a search light when she recognized me.